


final draft

by decidingdolan



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Introspection, Jughead's POV, M/M, Randomness, Retrospective, Second Person, musings from under the beanie, nonlinear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: what do they know, you're the weirdo in the beanie. here are your words, thrown into them lot. tossed, twisted, burnt. riverdale's changed since the fourth of July, and you weren't one to let things go undocumented.





	1. neon

 

 

 

_I think about you. But I don’t say it anymore._

_\--Marguerite Duras,_ Hiroshima mon amour

 

  

* * *

 

 

Archie’s a fucking piece of work.

 

You pretended not to notice as he stepped in. The bell dinged, the door swung open, and there walked Riverdale’s redheaded golden boy on the checkerboard floor.

 

You spotted him the minute he slid off his car, you self-conscious fool.

 

A silhouette, yes, but unmistakable. Unmistakably him, Archie. The stature, the tux. The unkempt hair. (You’d hate to imagine which girl had the good fortune to mess _that_ up this time. You’d been too far removed from that reality channel broadcasting his so-called perfection since high school rolled around.)

 

He stood, awkward, indecisive. Summer work may have bulked him up. A new circle of friends may have boosted that nonexistent, implicit popularity meter. And Betty—sweet, homey, girl-next-door—Betty Cooper might have fallen hard for him. But Archie remained your clueless soul, head in a world of his own and mind detached from the rest of Riverdale, and the drama playing out before him.

 

You’re avoiding his eyes as you typed, fingers darting from one black key to another.

 

It’s Jason Blossom’s story. The town’s. This transient summer. The stupid lies. The unexplainable, invisible rifts. Unspoken words and hidden relationships.

 

This. This was tabloid gold.

 

(And they said small town life was a yawn.

 

Not with this lot around.)

 

* * *

 

“You think so, Jug?” he asked you one time, hand brushed hair back and cheeks still flushed from football practice.

 

You’re sitting on the bench, in that locker room, a writer’s notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. He was the star, you the spectator. The established order of the relationship you’d gotten used to (cliché alert: not that it’d always been this way.)

 

And you shrugged. Scribbled a word on the pad. Couldn’t remember what it was, for the life of you, but it had to have (it must have) something to do with Mister Redhead.

 

“Yea, well,” you replied, blew air through your lips, “They tend to like that sort of thing, from what I’ve seen.”

 

He’d changed, showered, grimy jersey to maroon hoodie, and you resisted the urge to comment on his look. Archie was going to some party of moderate importance, and you were the last person _you’d_ want to consult on social dresscode.

 

 _Seriously. Has he_ seen _the beanie?_

 

* * *

 

Archie slid in, took his seat. And you allowed yourself a glance.

 

Untied bowtie. Nice.

 

His face’s a broken neon sos sign begging to be saved. His eyes were anxious, searching. You let yourself at it a bit more, savour the sight. The pristine prince’s in a bad place, and the outcast was relishing his break in the sidelines’ blinking red spotlight.

 

“I’m terrified I may have lost my best friend,” he said, and the giant speakerphone in your head was blasting _I told you so_ at maximum volume.

 

Oh, Archie Andrews.

 

How you’d waited for this day.

 

It came too early, too soon, than you’d prepared yourself.

 

When he’d run out of Riverdale folks to talk to, when he’d searched the town to the last and only place open at midnight, to find the one person he’d not spoken to for the entire summer.

 

When he’s cornered into Pop’s corner of the universe to edge into your world.

 

“It’d have gone a long way with me.”

 

Something caught in your throat when you made yourself say the words. Had to swallow before that sentence, even. The breaking point, that edge, what happened—happened, and that seed that had lain dormant started itching in your mind again.

 

Events halted. Systems crashed. But God knew Archie never cared enough about you to go out of his (limited) ways to speak to you as he did with Betty tonight.

 

Nope. No calls. No knocks on your door. A nudge on Facebook. An anonymous message on your blog. None of those.

 

And who were you to judge.

 

He took the easy way out, typical Arch.

 

Chose not to speak, leave it be, and let it.

 

You’re the one to simmer over the fires.

 

He listened, nodded, and you’re cursing yourself for giving him advice. It was easy, to talk to him than not. Crash into matters head-on, collide and confront than to avoid and pretend.

 

He’d surfaced. He’d called your name, invaded your space. Fall’s turned him back out around to you, words exchanged, unsolicited guidance given. Just like old times.

 

Except you’re drafting your novel, second-guessing your words, and guarding yourself from him. He’d lost track of you, the elusive Jug, and you’d rather it be kept that way.

 

He got up to leave, you raised a hand.

 

The system was disrupted, a pulse felt. A ripple, a beat.

 

Archie Andrews was the beating heart, the unknowing catalyst.

 

Your Americano was still bitter, still dark (the way you liked it), but he’d ignited change. A trigger. And who were you to ignore this sudden deviation from the norm?


	2. time

 

 

 

_You are on earth, there is no cure for that_

  
_\--Samuel Beckett,_ Endgame

 

 

* * *

 

He’s still standing there, staring. Brown eyes shone at you, hope written all over them. And you almost wanted to laugh.

 

Shouldn’t he know you well by now, Mister Andrews.

 

“We’re not going to hug in front of this whole town,” you’re telling him, unable to resist that stubborn grin lifting your lips. Your voice was giddy, moderated (you hoped), a mixture and blunder of sorts. Here he was, the Archie you remembered, the Archie you thought you knew. Surfacing from the depths of god-knows-where, washed up in the rain.

 

Those red strands highlighted by the spotlight.

 

He lifted his eyes, reading your moves. He’d always been second place, a step after your hurried, whizzing thoughts, but he’d manage. He would get there in the end.

 

He’s no god, this Archie. A flawed knight in shoulder pads and dirtied football jersey, maybe. A lost lamb in the town that mistook him for a rare treasure, more like.

 

And suddenly he’s smiling, eyes cast down. Boyish, self-effacing, genuine. You’d duck and hide, but that radiating charm was too potent to resist.

 

It’s pouring outside, the grass damp on your denim converse, and you’re standing by the sidelines, back to the wires. You liked to think of yourself in the sidelines, being literally _at_ the sidelines, watching _from_ the sidelines, and caring less about another pep rally than the average Riverdale High’s good citizen standards would permit.

 

Then Archie Andrews approached you (of course he’d figure out where you were. _Of course_.), spilled his guts on the outcome of his constrained decision process (at long last, thank the maker), asked for your pardon, and you found yourself falling.

 

Right out of caring into feeling. Actually. Feeling.

 

You’d rise above cliches, as per your signature, your crafted lifestyle. Snuff the pack, the fad, the latest passing trends, whatever. Forget that illusory, unified groupthink.

 

But Riverdale girls weren’t exactly wrong in their musings about those dark eyes’ arresting effects.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, straight and simple, when the situation was anything but.

 

You let the words sink in, listen to them in your head.

 

If only you could hear them months earlier.

 

* * *

 

9:38 a.m., flashed your phone’s lockscreen.

 

Your coffee was lukewarm, its bottomless blackness a welcoming sight. Pop greeted you when you dropped in. A plate of homemade breakfast landed on your table minutes later.

 

Breakfast, neon signs, and bacon. What was missing was a certain redhead.

 

_Dude. Where are you?_

 

Your 9:10 a.m. text remained unread, and you’re sipping in that heated elixir, slapping your nerves awake and thinking of the crowded camping grounds you’d have to squeeze yourself into.

 

_This was your idea. Entirely._

 

You remembered shooting him a look, and Archie chuckled, good-natured and unbothered. He grinned, leaning toward you from his place in this same booth.

 

_It’ll be fun. Come on. How long has it been since we’d gone camping together?_

 

Since that treehouse…and elementary school…maybe never. The answer was on your lips, but you chose not to reply. Let him interpret your silence as a surrender.

 

 _Deal?_ he reached out a hand. You slapped it, felt some thread of common sense inverted inside you, some notion of summer altered. He’d yanked a page out of your novel and replaced it with his own.

 

_See you on the fourth, Jug._

 

You’re tapping your feet, the seat leather scratching against your tee. The diner’s temperature rose by degrees, but you’d only been static, locked into one place.

 

Your phone buzzed, couple of times, vibrated against the table’s surface, and you rolled your eyes, surmising a flood of apologies and him attempting to make up to you, the way he was.

 

Instead the notification screen displayed a bunch of short, blunt texts, punctuated and final, and you’re downing your coffee, asking Pop for one more.

 

* * *

 

You were honest with yourself, except when it came to him.

 

Headphones were effective barriers, usually. For keeping your distance from people—peers, fellow humans. The school. But mostly, mostly your thoughts.

 

Seek refuge where you could escape. Barricade your nerves within the melodies. Make treading your way through these drab hallways a bearable chore.

 

So your heart may have crumbled up a bit when you spotted them two in the Music Room, him (the smartass) standing right at the door’s window into the room. Him, and—as if he couldn’t be more of a troubled protagonist teen troupe—her.

 

You told yourself you were in shock, the music notes dead in your ears.

 

In shock, and irritated. In shock, and removed. In shock, and you weren’t going to reflect on this, weren’t going to worry yourself with this, weren’t going to care.

 

And standing up to face him, that familiar face so frustrated, so trapped in front of you, you’d maintained it was human curiosity. A frayed strand linking you to him that you’d neglected to snip for good.

 

But you’re watching him now, bright eyed and smiling at your cloak of sardonic humility, and you found yourself speaking your mind.

 

(Yes. Outside. With this crowd of people.

 

Horrifying.)

 

“To be discussed,” you continued, in mock seriousness. You’re stepping down, stepping out to him. Might as well did it your way.

 

“Over many burgers. Over many days.”

 

He owed you that much, you reasoned to yourself.

 

Nights at Pop’s. His words. His time. Apologies were short-lived, fast phrases slipped from loose tongues. Your relationship with him was a period, prolonged, phrases, bookmarking events in your lives.

 

He had a meaning in your world, like it or not. A presence, a history.

 

It might have been the time to let him back in.


	3. him

  

 

_The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true._  

_\--James Branch Cabell_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nobody's called you Juggie in years.

 

Not even him.

 

Jug. Forsythe. J Forsythe when he's irritated, as he seldom was, but Archie, plain old Archibald Andrews, stuck through with your self-made moniker, Jug.

 

So when she texted, asked you to drop by at Riverdale's very own Room of Requirement, aka the abandoned, dusty Blue and Gold office, you showed up ready to leave.

 

Betty's calm, as she often was. Persuasive, coaxing. Honeyed voice curved round your name.

 

Well, _her_ version of your name.

 

Revive this dead—sorry, Betty—dormant corpse of a newspaper?

 

She knew full well (as if your personal style wasn't the obvious enough) you were an aspiring Capote. And here she wanted you to play model reporter. Spill ink in the name of school spirit. _La dee da_.

 

Archie wasn't the only one who mistook you for being as static as them.

 

Time's fluid. Rivers rushed. Redheads (got shot and) drowned. You changed.

 

They should've known that.

 

You'll have full control, she said. And your ears perked up, the slightest bit.

 

Her tiptoeing around your words, you could handle. It’s getting the news to print that had you agreeing to her proposition.

 

An expose. An investigative piece. Your specialty.

 

Searched her eyes. Tried to interpret that goody wholesomeness.

 

Couldn't hurt to give it a try.

 

* * *

 

 

Three hamburgers, and your stomach was still growling like some sort of relentless monster.

 

The kid sat opposite you, spoon poised at the sundae placed before him.

 

Swiped a cherry, because you could, and because his "What the hell, man?" was music to your ears.

 

Much as that creamy vanilla and chocolate was an explosion in your mouth.

 

Free food was the best type of food, even while on-the-job.

 

The kid's timid enough, easy enough to crack. One little push and the truth on Doiley came spilling out.

 

You swirled the ice cream round your tongue, closed your eyes at the taste (because this. This was the real winner of the evening, nothing else. You'd make love to it if you could.), and envied Capote, Christie, and Chandler.

 

Fate should've tossed a tougher case to crack your way. The last of the chocolate sauce's saccharine spell was disappearing from your tongue, and you remembered that it was Riverdale.

 

Even at its worst, even at its darkest (temporary. Weatherbee had yet to catch wind of Archie's scandal with Grundy. As if that would last. Only another sordid teacher-student affair. But as if you could expect Archie to break out of the mold in a different manner. This was the town. This was the situation. This was where you'd both grown up, after all.), Riverdale was tame.

 

The scene of the crime was Sweet Water River, for Christ's sake.

 

* * *

 

The Pussycats' latest showcase was an upbeat fanfare with artsy lyrics, the sort you'd come to expect from the mayor's outspoken daughter who'd outsassed Archie (rightly) on more than one occasion.

 

But you weren't here for the entertainment (and had to miss the food. For shame. Full blame on Doiley for this. No one else.)

 

Archie snuck up in time to catch you bopping your head to the melody. This was no Nickelback, but you’d have to make do.

 

"I helped write the song," said Archie, and you're staring at him, straight in the eyes.

 

Couldn't be more obvious that he was proud of this. The rhythm, Josie's voice crooning the lyrics. It wasn't a revelation, not a phenomena to bring down the town.

 

The sole reason you cracked a corner smile was him.

 

He smiled back, instantaneous, like a pleased child being rewarded, and you'd made a point to dismiss the flickering warmth in your heart.

 

"I'd love to stay," you started, excusing yourself before this (whatever it was) turned into whatever else it wasn't.

 

Archie watched you leave, wordless, and you wondered how it was that he'd come to capture your attention so. This simple boy with the most basic storybook dreams.

 

* * *

 

The second Doiley mentioned Grundy you saw Betty's world fracture.

 

Archie had confessed to his platonic feelings for the blonde, of course. But this discovery would saw an already broken heart in half.

 

You're seeing the investigations that would follow, the truth that would shake the town, and place the redhead at the epicenter of attention.

 

So much for being hot for teacher.

 

There's a few cliches up for grabs, and your Archie happened to choose the cougar over the fail-safe girl next door.

 

Too late to empathize (like you'd ever), even later to save him from a predetermined end.

 

Ask, and you'd say you wholeheartedly believe in Archie believing the affair was going to be fluff and rainbows.

 

Boy's living in Riverdale. What else could you expect?


	4. her

 

>  
> 
> _What can you know about a person? They shift in the light. You can’t light up all sides at once._
> 
> _\--Richard Siken,_ Portrait of Fryderyk in shifting light
> 
>  
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

You'd lost homes before, when Dad walked out and Mom disappeared.

 

The Drive-In closing was another transition, another home you had to abandon, another bed grown warm and slept in you had to deny yourself of.

 

The owners were kind enough to take you in, room, board, and job. You had that unquestionable love for cinema, that unholy attachment to worship the flickering grounds of moving pictures more than life itself. that full-fledged Tarantino obsession. You became accustomed to the projectors, the reels of grainy films changing segments of stories projected on screen. You put your impartiality to good use, sitting and watching the watchers through the screening room window. You loved the shadows and dimmed lights, let yourself bathe in the faded monochrome and vivid colors, as old Hollywood speak surround your senses.

 

You took home free popcorn, few steps from the booth. Stuff yourself with the buttered delicacy until your hummingbird metabolism gave in. You munched on semi-decent hot dogs, knowing full well they were Costco bread and cheap multipack bratwurst sold in aisle 3. You're sipping cherry cola, infecting your tongue with about as much sugar content to block your bloodstream.

 

Life was free films and cinematic junk food, hot cash spun into Americanos at Pop's, and film lines recycled as character conversations.

 

Life was... borderline tolerable. But just right.

 

"People who smoke crack," Kevin chimed in, to Veronica's open, oh-so-relevant question, and you wanted to jam a whole chute of protest down his throat.

 

It didn't used to be like this. It didn't used to be a trash pile, a gang's stomping grounds. The Drive-In was, boundaries pending, Riverdale's own preserved piece of history, frozen at a point in time before Veronica's named 21st century home entertainment options. It was a Friday sanctuary, a place of static certainty you could rely on to always stay. The atmosphere, the appeal of live cinema, of playing out, scene by scene, to people's instant, shared, mass reactions. Realizing your existence on the same note as the films, having existentialism's morbidity stripped away, reel by reel, because of how alive it all was. Because of how alive it made you feel.

 

Cinema's got your back, families or not.

 

Jellybean used to chase you, laughing, running off toward the giant Drive-In screen. Your mother chastised the girl, warned her not to get lost on the grounds.

 

"It's okay," you remember saying, as you stood, palms on knees and huffing heated breaths (she really could run.), "Films are my friends."

 

And you meant it. You meant it as she skidded to a stop and turned. Yelled back, "You're crazy, Jug."

 

As Mom shook her head at you both.

 

But as life played out, as they happened to you as characters in your as-yet-untitled biography, and as they didn't, you couldn't have predicted it better.

 

Films were, at times and most times, literally your friends.

 

Glancing at the grounds some nights, you could've sworn you saw Jelly smiling back.

 

That other girl in your life (but hadn't she always been? Just mostly next to Archie. Overlooking your grey crown of a beanie straight to his red locks. But you had priorities. Girls weren't one of them.) woke from her reverie and picked a classic teen film straight out of her head.

 

It was the more obvious, a straight shot to the projector's core. A twisted coming of age tale you'd loved since you were eight.

 

And your heart grew fond, your lips left to their own accord, your eyes focused on hers.

 

Well. Betty Cooper. _Well._

 

 

* * *

 

You hadn't the heart for expectations.

 

That they were going to help, you weren't going to hope.

 

That you'd be falling back into the void of disappointment you saw clear.

 

That authority figures were, at least in this town, figureheads. Power hungry and profit driven.

 

The construction manager's son played with the worker's, and he didn't bat an eye when your father walked out the door.

 

Faults, survival tactics, cheat and steal, but he’s your Dad.

 

The mayor, the construction manager. Who were they to listen to a fifteen-year-old's pleas?

 

* * *

 

Dad looked better than you'd seen him last.

 

You could look him in the eye now, stand tall, laugh away the pink elephant on the Drive-In grounds.

 

It was your choice. It was his. Decisions impacted lives, diverged paths. No one was to blame.

 

The poster tube's weighing on your shoulders, what possessions you'd obtained over the years stuffed into a backpack. They'd robbed you, rid you of the past.

 

He asked you The Real Question, and the smile vanished from your lips.

 

Faults, survival tactics, cheat and steal, but it's your life.

 

* * *

 


	5. us

 

 

 

_But — just when I manage to harden my heart, he’ll turn around and be so sweet. I always fall for it. I don’t know why._

  
_\--Donna Tartt,_ The Secret History

 

 

* * *

 

 

Archie was the one certainty in your life you did not need figuring out.

 

Boy ticked like clockwork.

 

So when he followed you into the hall, palm on your arm and voice singling out the shortened version of your name, your exchange followed a scripted best-friend confrontational scene to a T.

 

Him pandering on an anxiety-fuelled question-asking spree, and you playing at the stone-cold, objective receiving end.

 

Broke out of the routine to fuck with him a little, and the worried glazing those eyes was fun to observe. Poke the flow, get a redhead's exasperation in return.

 

"I'm kidding," you said, after a perfectly timed pause, and he still refused to let you go.

 

Asked you to watch the Hitchcock blonde, and you couldn't grant him a half-hearted promise.

 

The thing about Hitchcock blondes, the most mundane, common knowledge, was their unpredictability.

 

Their beauty betraying the dormant volatility brimming beneath the calm exterior.

 

You knew. You'd known. You'd both known, you much better than him.

 

The point was, he'd asked you to keep an eye on the supposed girl next door.

 

With Betty Cooper, it was all or none. Have her monopolize your attention, or lose all of her in action.

 

And, Archie or not, you were unprepared for either.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Almost as unprepared to hear the word "date" from her lips.

 

Betty Cooper, going on a date. Literally, on a date. Termed as a date. Used in a verbal interchange as a date. Scheduled in a dedicated timeslot as a date.

 

Sealing, in an affirmative manner, the deal, with those thin pink lips of hers, those lively blues. That it's a date.

 

(Please. Mrs. Cooper would have a field day.

 

Like the only person she's ever been obsessed to go out with was the obvious.

 

And this. This was outside the state space. Outside your known boundaries about her.

 

What did you know, Hitchcock blondes.)

 

Kevin's already jabbering on about the guy, and you're in your place, figuratively. Literally. Calculating. Gauging the situation.

 

Could've punched yourself for the emotions seeping through your skeptical pokes at her choice of words.

 

Emotions. She's breaking all the damn locks in your underground safes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She became your habit. Trivialities existed until they didn't. A room became a meeting place. A designated time became your shared dimension.

 

The Blue and Gold became yours and hers.

 

Betty's cocking her head, lips forming the word, "Seance," and there's the slightest irrational tug on your heartstrings.

 

(Ridiculous).

 

You ended up serving her a damn Pirates folklore reference in return.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

She turned around and the world burned bright.

 

Affective illusions. Conscience straying from mind. You opened with a film noir line, stepped into her Victorian-wallpapered room, hoping to gather yourself and rally her willpower.

 

And surprise, surprise. You put the corny Romantic Comedy leads to shame.

 

Temperatures shot up, like your head was prepping for some sort of off-season insulation. Her eyes chased yours across the room, and your senses unwired. Emotions took rein, and whatever traces of impartiality you prided yourself on disappeared.

 

"It was the best I could do," you managed, by way of breaking the silence.

 

Except this was no awkwardness. This was you and her. A tension, a force, a connection. You tore yourself away, eyes first, and doubted reason. She was smiling, and heat exploded inside you.

 

Heart drummed a low, long groan, tripling itself over within a normal time interval, and you wondered why you hadn't drop to your knees.

 

Corner of your lips twitched up, reluctant and automatic, and you're one self-conscious teenage boy, standing in front of a girl who used to love his best friend.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Henry James couldn't have written it better.

 

Except the bit where you held onto her shoulders at the start.

 

Scratch that. Especially that bit.

 

She smelled like daisies. Fresh and bathed in sunlight. You're dimmed cellars and soggy newspapers on a rainy day, and she's the lightbulb in your darkened room.

 

Opportune moment to quote _Apocalypse Now_ , like the self-labeled complacent film buff that you were.

 

It's a scene straight out of _Crimson Peak_ , after a hell of a funeral showdown, and you're barricaded behind your leading lady for safety.

 

The novel was writing itself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_The Usual Suspects_ framed it best.

 

Those first eliminated from the board were the ones closest to the cause.

 

You're looking at her as she pinned her family name on the murder board, truth in writing and in her eyes.

 

What truths to be salvaged remained in another identical pair of blues.

 

* * *

 


	6. sigh

   

   

 

 

 

 

> _Each time you happen to me all over again._

> _\- Edith Wharton,_ The Age of Innocence

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Nothing says good morning like Alice Cooper bisecting your name.

 

You’re chewing the pancake in your mouth (Mhm. Maple syrup.), trying to swallow the pieces while the lone clanks of her spoon stirring the tea echoed off the room’s walls.

 

The Coopers’ breakfast routine had changed since you were ten, to say the least. You’d gone off with Archie and snagged yourself a booth with your own (unwritten) name at Pop’s. If it wasn’t for small town justice, if it wasn’t for the Blue & Gold, if it wasn’t for Betty, you’d be back there, under neon lights and sipping your usual black intoxicant, wallowing in comfortable self-imposed seclusion.

 

But Betty was in your story now, your words, your sentences, your thoughts. And with her came the family.

 

Who were you to judge products of dysfunctional homewrecks?

 

You gulped down orange juice, still maintaining silence as the natural apathetic response. You were here on duty and you were here on your own will. Watching her, reconnecting with her, stepping back into her world. Her family. Her life.

 

Betty raised her eyebrow. (Subtle). And you put the juice down, kissing the glass goodbye with your lips. It’s been a damn long while since you’d had a decent, all-American breakfast, with a side of your favorite (it’s been, what, sixteen years? Reflections. Retrospections. Those took forever. You were allowed.) local wholesome girl.

 

She got up to guide you out, but Alice took control. Not wholly unexpected – as if a woman of Alice Cooper’s protective motherhood caliber would leave you alone with her daughter.

 

Well, anything to divert her attention, that was the plan.

 

Snuck a glance back as you followed Alice, and Betty was already onto it. Your sweet sleuthster. Your blonde Nancy Drew.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You fell in love with burgers at first sight. Served hot, juicy meat steaming, brioche fluffy and melting in mouth. Cheese oozing in between layers, and lettuce and tomatoes stuffed into the artless mess. You’d stare, you’d breathe in the scent, inspect the beauty until your tongue watered and gorge yourself on the edible love of your life.

 

But you surprised yourself when you could not tear your eyes from her.

 

Food, Betty. In close proximity and together. You’re sitting at the table, knees up, her at your side. Munched on chips and raised your eyebrow at her.

 

Seemed to be the unspoken, long-running gag between you two lately. Raising eyebrows. Quick signals that no one else would catch on in time. Snippets of moments privy to you and her, a link forming an exclusive club of your own.

 

And you’d much prefer it that way, thanks, Arch.

 

He’d been so _busy_ , so preoccupied with that _groundbreaking_ music and the eternal _high school musical_ leading man trope of a protagonist self-discovery conflict lately, he’d not bother to catch up with the rest of the town.

 

Or you, for that matter.

 

You’d yet see (and eat) those burgers promised to you on the football field, some long weeks ago.

 

You’re living on the flipside now. She’s pooling in your time, and him none. She’s circling your mind, your eyes, your thoughts wrapped around her smiles, her voice.

 

And to think you’d sold your soul to the god of burgers before all this.

 

 

* * *

  

 

It’s okay. She’s okay. You’re okay.

 

You’re _both_ okay.

 

You stared at her before you took the plunge, eyes focused on lips and pebbles in your throat. Voice turned syrup-thick, and words slipped into unreachable voids.

 

She breathed a sigh, and that worried you. Placed a hand on her shoulder, a shaky attempt at soothing. You’d never been good at connecting with people (as was the entire Riverdale’s common knowledge), but she was your priority.

 

What your parents did was in the past. Broken glass and spilled milk. You’re seeing the hurt you recognized in her eyes, and it took seconds to tell her the lesson you learned on your own. It was Holden Caulfield. It was J.D. Salinger. Supposedly universal, widely stated. An _Anna Karenina_ foreword of truth.

 

You’d only learned it too late. She shouldn’t have to.

 

Distance existed, palpable between you. The lessons shot out like written words, shitty first drafts at 5am on a Sunday morning. You’re facing her, wordless and forcing out a lame adverb. She’s asking, _What? What?_ Her voice soft, then louder, bit higher in pitch, the word taking over the room, the space, your head, and you wanted to tell her it’s nothing.

 

It’s nothing to be said, nothing to be explained, nothing to be defended.

 

Her lips were peonies, narrow pink, and curiosity colored your anxiety. You stood, eyes flitted between hers and them pair. You’re thirsting, you’re hungry, and the item you’re longing to taste wasn’t on the menu.

 

And you leapt, grabbed her and took your chance. Lips, tongues. Contact, that was more than signals. A wider step, a larger step, asking her, claiming her of your status in this shared dynamic.

 

You’re calling her Juliet, labeling the romance (Christ). Not that it was forbidden, not that it was your feuding families, but clichés screamed obviousness, and her smile at the sight of you was a solid start.

 

Your heart was in your ears when she started kissing you back, and you’re lost on where you began. Your palm was at her neck, your thumb grazing her cheek, soft, slow. Your nose brushed hers when your lips broke away, and your sigh untangled the knots in your stomach you didn’t realize existed until you’d tasted her.

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for stopping by, reading, reviewing :)
> 
> let this leads us where it leads us.
> 
> (i'm at dolanx.tumblr.com - feel free to drop by and say hi!)
> 
> Your ever humble fanfic writer,
> 
> x


End file.
